


Surprise, Sometimes, Will Come Around

by whatsherquirk



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Music Store, Biting, Blood, Blow Jobs, Degradation, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Fucking, Flirting, Hair-pulling, Masochism, Praise Kink, Public Blow Jobs, Record store au, Rough Sex, Scratching, Semi-Public Sex, Sex to Music, Table Sex, Teasing, zeke being a creep, zeke is so pretentious i cannot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28697667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsherquirk/pseuds/whatsherquirk
Summary: “So what else do you listen to, missy?”Your heart races when he addresses you so casually, like he knows you when he really doesn’t. Personally, you think you have great music taste, but the way he asks makes you feel so small, so naive even when you’re not. Your cheeks heat and you avoid his gaze, looking down instead at your scuffed Converse that’s currently coming untied. “I don’t know. A lot of stuff.”Zeke sets his bag of records down on the counter. “Yeah? Bet I could show you a thing or two.”--Zeke is the record store’s most notorious customer, and you’re its newest employee. They tried to warn you.
Relationships: Zeke (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 186





	Surprise, Sometimes, Will Come Around

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was originally posted to my tumblr @whats-her-quirk. The title is a lyric from Untitled by Interpol, the first song on the album featured in the fic. It's a fantastic album actually, please listen to it. Big thanks to @present-mel for the thirst and the best line in this whole piece. I’ll go sit in the corner now.

It’s five minutes until close and almost everything in the record store is already shut down. The music, half the lights, and even the security cameras are off, besides the one pointed at the front door. You’ve counted the drawer twice already but you can’t close out the register because Zeke just. Won’t. Leave.

You hoped that he’d get the hint as the store got progressively darker and quieter, but he’s still hovering at the record bins, flipping through the R’s with those long, spindly fingers of his. It’s against company policy to ask a customer to leave when they’re still shopping because god forbid you lose a sale when your store is already having trouble staying open in the age of Spotify. Besides, Zeke spends a fortune here just about every week. If your boss found out you chased him away it might be your job on the line. You lean on the counter, tired and hungry and bored out of your mind, hoping he makes up his goddamn mind soon.

“Ah, shit.” You glance up to see Porco looking exasperated at his phone and running his hand through his slicked-back hair.

“What?”

“My brother’s car broke down. I gotta go pick him up.”

“You can’t leave, you’re the only manager here.”

“He’s on the side of the highway at night. That’s dangerous. Besides, you’ll be fine. Everything’s basically done.” You’d argue but he’s already locking the door and tossing you the key. “Just don’t let anyone else in and lock up again when he’s done.”

You know this is against the rules. You’re not supposed to be alone in the store without a manager present, but if Porco’s ok with it, you guess he’s the one that’ll get in trouble for this, not you. “Fine, whatever. Hope your brother’s ok.” Porco winks at you and does a dumb little two-finger salute before he disappears out the door.

You jump when you turn around and Zeke is already standing at the counter with a stack of at least ten records.

Everyone who works here knows Zeke. On your very first day, while Bert was still teaching you how to run the cash register, he sauntered in and started scanning the bins upon bins of vinyl. You tried your best to pay attention to what Bert was showing you, but you found your eyes wandering back to the blonde as he pulled records, flipped them over a few times, and then either tucked them under his arm or put them back with a look of disgust on his face. It was annoying, yet also weirdly fascinating how he wore his approval, or lack thereof, so plainly on his handsome, slender face.

When Zeke was ready to check out, more than forty-five minutes later, Bert had asked if you wanted to give it a go. You did your best to keep your eyes down, not wanting to seem like you were, ahem, checking him out. He’d chuckled when you screwed up and punched in your employee code wrong, and when you accidentally scanned the copy of On Avery Island by Neutral Milk Hotel he was buying twice. He didn’t act bothered one bit, waiting patiently to hand you his credit card, his hand brushing yours when you returned it to him. You bagged up his records, not wanting to be caught blushing, and handed them over.

“Thanks,” he said before leaning in to get a better look at your nametag, which you realized was pinned just above your left breast. He read out our name with a sweet, honeyed voice, letting it roll off his tongue before bidding farewell to Bert and strolling out the door.

When Bert sighed, you started to apologize for all your mistakes during the transaction. “I’ll get it better next time, I promise.”

But he shook his head defensively. “Oh, no. Not that, you’ll get the hang of it. It’s just...that guy, Zeke. He comes in here all the time.”

“Oh? So you know him?”

“Kind of.” Bert’s eyes shifted to the side. “Just, uh, watch out for him, ok?”

“What do you--” Before you could say anything more, Bert cleared his throat and started explaining what to do if someone wanted to put a record on hold for pickup.

Bert’s reaction itched at the back of your mind for almost a week. Zeke seemed nice enough, and he was patient when you messed up at the register. But Bertolt didn’t seem like the type to merely be distrustful of someone for no reason, as cautious as he was. What was he so worried about? You spent hours wondering what Zeke possibly could have done to warrant such a warning.

The next time he came in, you got a closer look.  
Instead of stopping at the New In section by the door, this time, Zeke made a beeline to where Pieck was seated on a tall stool, one crutch by her side, reorganizing a row of CDs that someone had gotten completely out of order while browsing. She didn’t look up much while Zeke talked to her, just kept shelving the CD cases and nodding occasionally. Zeke hovered a long time, poking at the CDs next to her when she stopped responding, until finally heading back up front to the record bins and painstakingly picking out a few new additions to what you had to imagine was his large and impressive collection.

You busied yourself emptying the trash can underneath the counter while Porco helped him at the register. The two chatted easily as old friends, talking about a local band gig they were both planning on checking out that weekend. As Zeke’s total went up, you replaced the trash bag, and dug out a new roll of receipt paper because you knew the printer was running low. When you ran out of things to do, you leaned against the back wall, looking on as casually as you could at the exchange. 

With his haul bagged up and tucked away, Zeke headed for the door, but not before grinning at you and bidding you goodbye by name.

It wasn’t long before Pieck dragged her stool back behind the counter and plopped down at the register, Porco taking her place out on the floor before she even asked him. You gave her a few minutes, waiting until she leaned her elbow on the counter and dropped her hand into her chin to ask the question that had been bothering you for days.

“So that guy that was talking to you,” you started, and Pieck looked up half-expectantly. “What’s his deal?” It was the most non-committal way you could think to ask; you didn’t want to imply anything.

“Who, Zeke?” You nodded, and she shrugged. “He’s a regular, comes in all the time. Acts nice, but he thinks he’s king shit. Kinda creeps on all the female employees, too. Just don’t encourage him.”

That was one way to read the vibes you were getting from him, and the attention he piled on you and now Pieck. But he wasn’t like the creeps you knew back in school, the ones who used sleazy lines on you right out of the gate or groped your ass at parties. Zeke was, for lack of a better term, kind of charming, even if the warning sirens were going off in your mind every time he looked in your direction.

“What’s he, like, 30?” He was certainly older than you, but he was so good-looking, it made it hard to tell exactly by how much.

“Something like that,” Pieck answered with a sigh before picking up a magazine and browsing through the pages.

She obviously didn’t want to talk about it, so you dropped the subject. You get the feeling that maybe there had once been something between them, maybe an awkward breakup that Pieck wasn’t comfortable talking about while she was on the clock. Even if you had more questions, you had to respect that. 

That was just over a month ago. Since then, you’d seen Zeke a few more times, but you were careful to keep him at arm’s length despite his generally friendly demeanor. He could definitely get annoying if he got to talking about music, but you’d been given no real reason to worry. If Porco is ok leaving you alone in the store with him, how bad could he really be?

Zeke leans both elbows on the counter, pushing his hips out behind him and arching his back to stretch with a slight groan. You ignore it and set your hand on top of the stack of records. “This it?” you joke dryly as you start to scan the barcodes.

Zeke snorts at the jab, but takes it well. “Yeah, been thinking I need to cut back a little.”

“Please don’t, my boss would be devastated.” You’re feeling a little delirious after a long day, loose-lipped as you just try and get this shift over with. Zeke merely chuckles in response.

You swipe each cardboard sleeve over the scanner in the counter, perusing the covers as you go: Oasis, Pavement, Sleater Kinney, old Green Day. So he’s definitely a 90s guy, if you couldn’t tell by his ripped black jeans and faded flannel shirt, unbuttoned over a tee with flaky lettering that’s barely holding on to the fabric. 

Maybe it’s because you’re so tired and hungry, but you don’t think before you say, “You must have a pretty impressive collection at home.” You wish you could suck the words back out of the air, but it’s too late; Zeke straightens up on the other side of the counter, ego already stroked.

“Last time I counted, I was hovering around 600 albums. But I’ve been collecting a long time.” 

Though you’re curious exactly how long he’s talking about, you pause in surprise when you reach the Radiohead album on the very bottom of the stack. You know Pieck warned you not to encourage him, but with how high and mighty he can act, you sincerely can’t pass up the opportunity to take him down a peg. What could it really hurt?

“600 albums and you don’t already have Ok Computer?” You hold the sleeve up in front of you after you scan it for emphasis.

Zeke snatches the album from your hand to turn it over in his own. “Of course I already had it. But I let my kid brother borrow it, and he fucking scratched it. At least you had a replacement in stock. Sometimes I’m surprised at the records this place doesn’t have.”

“Ah.” You pull back, disappointed that your attempted burn was unsuccessful. The transaction is coming to a close anyway, and you want to get out of here and get something to eat. You give him his total, just over $200, and he hands over his credit card.

“I gotta hand it to him though, at least this was the one he wanted to borrow,” Zeke muses. Whether the statement is directed at you, you’re not sure. “People like to say that Kid A is their best album, but it’s not. This is.”

His statements are so sweeping, so full of pretension you can’t help but scoff. “Seems like you just have a vendetta against anything that came out after ‘99.”

That has Zeke clicking his tongue as you pack his purchases into a bag for him. “Quite the contrary, actually.”

You hand over his purchases and wait for him to head for the door. Instead, he stands there, hand to his bearded chin, sizing you up from behind thick wire frames. This should really bother you more than it does, the way he’s raking his eyes over you, but something in your gut twists, hoping that whatever he’s looking for, he finds it.

He goes on in that nonchalant tone, like he’s not really speaking directly to you but at you. “You look about my brother’s age, maybe you know him. You go to school around here?”

“Mmhmm. What’s his name?”

“Eren Jaeger.”

You did go to school with Eren. He was always so loud, and always getting into fights; you couldn’t possibly not remember him. You decide not to mention that part. “Yeah, we graduated together.” You hadn’t seen him in the two years since. Not that you were close.

“Small world,” Zeke says, as if you live in a major metropolitan city and not a decent-sized suburb. Regardless, his eyes are still on you, and you start to fidget under his gaze. It seems like he wants something, but he’s not saying it.

“So, anything else I can help you with?”

Zeke hums, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He rolls his neck, taking his sweet time and not moving his feet from where they’re firmly planted. It’s like he knows you’re not supposed to ask him to leave. You could probably get away with it, gently leading him to the door and telling him it’s closing time, but you don’t. For some godforsaken reason, you realize that you’re waiting for what he’s going to do next.

Finally, he speaks again. “So you really like Nirvana, or did you just like the t-shirt?”

You look down, suddenly self conscious about the yellow smiley face ogling back up at you on the front of your black t-shirt. It’s not what you expected, you’ll give him that. You were waiting for him to ask you for your phone number, or what you’re doing tonight, not questioning the legitimacy of your fashion choices. “Yes, I listen to Nirvana.” You cover the hint of insecurity with an edge of sass, not wanting to crumble in front of him.

Zeke shrugs. “Just wondering. A lot of kids your age don’t listen to that kind of stuff, girls especially.”

Your eyes narrow on his face. “You don’t have to call me a kid. I’m in my twenties.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically before tilting his head down, regarding you over the top of his glasses. “You are twenty, if you graduated with my brother.”

“Same thing.”

“Is not.” He looks so smug as he scoffs, grin never leaving his face. “So what else do you listen to, missy?”

Your heart races when he addresses you so casually, like he knows you when he really doesn’t. Personally, you think you have great music taste, but the way he asks makes you feel so small, so naive even when you’re not. Your cheeks heat and you avoid his gaze, looking down instead at your scuffed Converse that’s currently coming untied. “I don’t know. A lot of stuff.”

Zeke sets his bag of records down on the counter. “Yeah? Bet I could show you a thing or two.” His eyes light up then with the glimmer of an idea, and he plucks a record out of his bag: Interpol. “Heard this before?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” He turns on his heel and starts walking toward the back of the store.

“H-hey, where are you—” You clamber around the side of the counter, following him down the center aisle of the store.

“I’m gonna play this. Sound system’s in the back room, right?”

“Yeah, but you can’t—”

He waves you off before reaching the door to the back room, where you keep boxes of paper towels and cleaning supplies. “Don’t worry honey, I’ve been coming here since before you were in high school. The owner knows me; he won’t mind.”

Something tells you that’s not entirely true, that your boss would probably draw the line at letting a customer mess with the sound system, especially after closing. But Zeke’s so assured, your mouth dries up. You can’t bring yourself to stop him.

In the dim light of the back room, with its cinder block walls and naked light bulbs, the stereo that’s hooked up to the speakers throughout the store sits on the corner of a sturdy table where most of you eat your lunches during your breaks. Zeke fiddles with the stereo and gets it turned on, then he pulls the vinyl out of its sleeve and places it on the old turntable on top. You watch dumbly from his side as the record starts to spin, and with a long pointer finger, Zeke lifts the needle and drops it carefully, precisely at the edge of the record.

You lean your ass against the edge of the table as the speakers, one of which is located just above the door outside the back room, crackles to life. A heady guitar riff slowly fades in; you like the song already, damnit. Zeke turns to you, arms crossed again. “And I’ll have you know that this came out in 2002, thank you very much.”

Warmth builds around the back of your neck. It’s embarrassing to have him turn your comments back on you, but there’s a charm to the way he does it, an almost-sweetness in his voice that makes it feel like he’s both joking and not joking at the same time. “Impressive.” It’s the only comeback you can think of, the word rolling off your tongue flatly.

Zeke shoves his hands in his back pockets and takes a step toward you, then another. The song continues to play as he closes in, trapping you between him and the table that’s digging into the backs of your thighs. Your breath hitches; your upper body leans back, but he stands right in front of you, legs mere inches from yours. “Impressive,” he echoes thoughtfully. He leans over you, tilting his head to the side, and you reflexively sit up a little straighter. His eyes flesh down once and then back up. “Think you could impress me?”

You don’t know, but you want to find out. 

You use the table to push yourself up, sticking out your chest and crashing your lips into his. Zeke smiles into the kiss, his hands leaving his pockets and coming up to cup your face. He tilts your head to the side and holds you in place as he opens his mouth, tongue snaking out past his teeth to lick at your lips. You open for him without a fight, welcoming the warm muscle into your mouth. He tastes like mint gum and cigarette smoke.

The repetitious melody of the first song fades away, and only a second of silence passes before the next song fades in with a swimming guitar hook that you can feel in your chest. Zeke kisses you harder, tongue pressing in and slurping at the back of your mouth. You arch your back, trying to find a more comfortable position for your craning neck. You wrap one hand around his wrist as the other notches in at his waist, trimmer than you would have guessed under that t-shirt.

His kisses continue, urgent and enthusiastic, pulling back with wet smacks only to dive in again over and over. His mouth, his taste—they’re intoxicating, but your neck really starts to hurt. When you squeeze his wrist and whimper, Zeke finally relents, removing his long fingers from your jaw. He bites down on your bottom lip before pulling back, a string of saliva breaking between the two of you. His eyes don’t break contact as he scoops behind your legs, lifting you onto the table before slotting his hips between your thighs.

He covers your lips with his as he speaks again. “You ok, honey? I think you can do a little better than that.” You sigh as he pushes your knees farther apart and presses himself against you. The bulge in his pants is hard against your crotch despite what he says, but you’re not satisfied. You’re desperate to please him, ready to give him whatever he wants in order to prove you’re the good fuck he wants you to be.

You throw your arms around his neck, fingers dancing up the back of his neck to the closely shorn hair at the nape. You scrape your nails through his velvety undercut, knuckles curling and pulling at the roots when you reach his longer blonde locks. Zeke hums into your mouth, and your stomach flips at the encouragement. You clench your fists, pulling harder as he gropes at your ass and thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the table.

“Yeah, honey, just like that,” he mumbles in the space between breaths. You sigh and pant as he squeezes into the tender flesh of your thighs, hard enough that you think he might leave fingerprints behind. When his mouth veers to your neck, sucking a dark bruise just above the line of your collar, you know you’ve been marked, and you hope it’s out of approval. Will people be able to tell that he’s touched you? Would your coworkers look at you the same way if they knew that you were able to please him?

The faint thrumming of the music from the speaker outside the door is a dim reminder that you’re still at work, that you can definitely get in trouble for doing this. You could even lose your job. You have Porco’s key, but Pieck has one too, and what if she stopped by right now to pick up a forgotten sweater or a book she left behind the counter? It’s unlikely, but not impossible.

But what’s louder than the music and the buzz of worry in your head is the way Zeke groans when you pull him in by the hair. The way the saliva squelches when he wraps both his lips around your tongue and sucks. The way he draws in a sharp breath and grinds his hips against yours, pressing his erection against your clothed core. Your apprehension is buried under the sweet sounds of his pleasure and yours, mixing together in a dirty cacophony trapped in that little cinder block room.

There are too many layers of clothing between you, you decide. You release your fingers from Zeke’s hair, trailing back down his neck to the collar of his checkered flannel shirt. Slipping your hands inside, you feel the shifting of his shoulder blades as he rubs over your hips and your lower back. You pull at the fabric, working it down his shoulders, wiry but broad underneath his tee, which is incredibly thin and clingy.

Zeke chuckles through his teeth. “Impatient little girl. You want me that bad?”

“Yeah, I want you.”

He shudders, eyebrows raised. “You’re more of a slut than I pegged you for.”

Despite his words, he shrugs out of his outer shirt before ripping his tee off over his head, desperate as you for more contact. You add your Nirvana shirt to the pile on the floor as you admire him, compact with muscle down his arms and torso that makes your mouth water. Without thinking, you reach for his belt buckle.

“What are you gonna do when you get in there?” he asks as you work at it, amused to no end, so you know you’re moving in the right direction.

His belt dangling, you pop the button on his jeans and tug the zipper down, finding dark green boxer briefs and the sumptuous imprint of his cock pointed up toward his hip. You lick your lips before answering. “Hand job?”

Zeke scoffs. “I’d rather you suck me off, but I’m sure we can figure out something.”

You bite your lip as you reach under his waistband, but you’re ashamed of the way you moan when you wrap your hand around his shaft and pull it out. It’s a nice size, thick enough and long, pretty and blushed in color. You pump him a few times, his head rolling back with a sigh, but it’s not enough. The longer you look at it, the more you want it.

“I’ll blow you,” you offer as you twist your wrist around the head, drawing a sharp breath from Zeke.

“Good girl. Now lie on your back.” He twirls his finger in the air, motioning for you to spin around on the table. You comply; at least this will be easy on your knees.

As you let your head dangle off the edge of the table, which is at a great height for him, your ass is pressed against the wall. You lift your legs and bend at the knee, bracing your feet against the cinder blocks. When you’re as comfortable as you’re going to be, you open your mouth for him, sticking out your tongue to help guide him in. 

Even upside down, Zeke’s sharp features look incredibly handsome, nose and cheekbones highlighted by the glasses that sit atop them. He’s kicked off his boxers completely, and he strokes himself a few times as he positions himself above you.

He smiles devilishly, green eyes glinting. “Look at you, panting like a bitch in heat. I knew you wanted my cock in your mouth.” He guides his tip to your tongue, and you cover your teeth and start to suck, eager to taste him. Before you can, he pulls back. “Good thing you have me here to show you what you really want.”

You’re not above begging at this point; not if it’ll get his cock into your mouth faster. “Please, Zeke.” He smirks at you once more before guiding himself into your waiting mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as you close your lips around him.

You lave over him with your tongue first, wetting the silken skin so it slides past your lips as he thrusts softly in and out of your mouth. He feels incredible in your mouth, heavy and slightly musky as he fucks into your face. You forget that your hands exist until he grabs you by the wrist, pulling your arm up so he can spit directly in your palm. You moan as he places your hand at his hilt. He hisses as you wrap your fingers around him and squeeze, and it only makes him thrust harder into your throat. 

“Mmmm, oh honey. Suck harder, come on.” Zeke groans as he uses you, pistons his hips hard enough that you feel it in your feet. You do as he says, slurping around his cock while you twist your tongue. His hand wraps around the base of your throat, and you wonder if he can feel himself inside you. You gag on his length and tears fill your eyes, pushing him farther toward his peak. As his pace quickens, you moan and jerk against him with your fist, doing everything you can to increase his pleasure as expletives fall from his mouth.

“Fuck, fuck, cockslut,” he spits as he lurches suddenly, a shock of bitterness shooting down your throat. You choke and sputter as he milks himself to completion, still half-hard as he pulls himself out of your mouth and you gasp for air.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you rest your hands on your bare stomach. You feel your breath heaving, your stomach filling and releasing over and over. Zeke helps you spin around length-wise on the table, but you feel dizzy as the blood rushes out of your head. You cover your eyes with your forearm until the room stops spinning. You half expect him to disappear then, but when you open your eyes, he’s still standing next to you.

“Hey,” you breathe, unsure of what else to say.

Zeke’s hand ghosts up your leg to the waistband of your jeans. “You ready for more, honey?” He hooks two fingers underneath the denim, teasing at the elastic of your panties.

The honest answer is that you’re not sure, but the louder part of your brain, the one that’s gone completely animalistic, wins control of your mouth. “Yeah.”

Zeke undoes your button and zipper, and you wriggle out of the tight jeans, pulling your panties off with them. You don’t care that your bare ass is on the lunch table, not when Zeke is sticking two of his fingers into your mouth, wetting them before swirling over your clit. You squirm as he works you over, dipping between your folds before plunging inside you. His thumb rests on that sensitive little button as he rubs his deft fingers into your plush inner walls.

“Love this tight little pussy,” he says, more to himself than to you, but you twitch and clench on him anyway. His thumb taps your clit, sending a jolt through your core with every touch. Your toes are just starting to curl when Zeke pulls out, leaving you whimpering at the emptiness.

You sit up on the table, slick drooling out of your cunt. Zeke leans down to wipe his hand on his button down before lifting the lid of the turntable and flipping the record over. “Can’t do this without a little ambiance, can we?” You nod dumbly. You hadn’t even noticed the record stop playing.

All Zeke has to do is walk back to you, a little awkwardly because he’s hard again, and you’re wrapped around him. You throw your legs around his waist, claw your fingers into his chest. In only the carnal sense, you want him. You want him badly, and now.

“Please, please, just fuck me already,” you whine.

Zeke chuckles. “Well, if you want it that badly.”

You should ask if he has a condom, but he probably doesn’t. Whatever. It’s incredibly stupid, but you don’t give it another thought as Zeke reaches down and coats himself in your wetness. You slide forward to the edge of the table, slouching down on your elbows to give him a better angle, and let your head loll back, waiting.

“You know, you look real pretty like this.” He says it through his teeth as he slides himself into your dripping pussy. Inhibitions gone, you’re greedy, locking your ankles behind his back to push him in faster. It takes him by surprise, perhaps for a few seconds, before Zeke hoists up your legs and starts to pound into you. His thumbs dig into the fold between your leg and your crotch.You writhe underneath him as he skims over that often ignored patch of skin. Your nerves jump and twinge under his touch, like shocks to your system.

You’re not going to last long; you can already feel your climax twisting in your stomach as Zeke plunges in and out of your little hole. The wooden legs of the table scrape back and forth against the floor, the table rocking with your body and banging obscenely against the wall. Sounds you’ve never heard tumblr from your lips, feral moans trading off with high pitched whines when he changes the angle of his hips and finds your g-spot.

Breathy grunts turn to growls as Zeke bears down, crushing your hips under his hands as he focuses on that little spot that makes you scream. Instinctively, you sit up and reach for him, clinging to him like your sanity. Your hands hook over his shoulders, and as your cunt starts to clench, so do your fingernails. You tear into Zeke’s back, scratching at his shoulder blades as you try to hold on to what control you have left. 

“Harder, baby,” Zeke growls, his voice rough and strained as he slams you on his cock. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted me to fuck you like a whore, right? Then show me. Show me how bad you want it.”

You scream and press your nails in deeper, and you feel the sickening snap of his skin breaking under some of your fingers. His skin is hot, steaming with sweat, his hips railing madly into you like its some kind of race. Zeke’s holding his breath, exhaling in laborious puffs when you scrape your nails down his back and then back up decorating either side of his spine with raised, burning welts. He gives one more sharp thrust, and you bite down on his shoulder as you cream around him, the last thread snapping loose.

Zeke groans in his throat as you squeeze him. Your legs shake and drool runs out of the sides of your mouth and down his bicep. His cock pulses inside of you, ready to blow, and you can’t find the words to tell him where to cum. He doesn’t stop pounding until the last possible second, making you squeal as he pulls out and releases between your stomach and his own.

You pant together as you come down. The record has stopped again, but the speakers crackle faintly with static from the turntable. You lie back on the table, neck and shoulders hitting the wall, and Zeke collapses on top of you. Sweat and cum mix on your stomach, making his body slide against yours with every breath. From where he lies on your chest, you can see the crosshatch of bleeding scratches down his back, your own handiwork like a mural on his skin.

Eventually Zeke rises, but he doesn’t kiss you. He gets to work cleaning you up, pulling a roll of paper towels from a cardboard box against the opposite wall. Your hips roll as he wipes away the evidence of your tryst, leaving you with only that dark hickey and the smell of sex as your reward.

You pull on your clothes in a daze, your stomach growling and empty. You remember how hungry you are as you reach for a spray bottle of cleaning solution and the paper towels to wipe down the table. As you finish, Zeke switches off the stereo and puts a hand to the small of your back.

“You hungry? I’ll take you to get something to eat.”

You’re unsure if you should say yes. You aren’t even positive if you want to sit across from him at a table, or ride in his car, because either means that you’re going to have to talk to him about god knows what. You aren’t sure you want to chance anyone seeing the two of you together; you don’t even have anything to cover the hickey on your neck. But what was done was done, and after he’d already been balls deep in you, you figure, what could it really hurt now?

“Ok, sure.” It’s the least he can do.


End file.
